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Clemencia was still hospitalized in Tucson when, on a trip back to Sells from seeing her, Wanda and Fat Crack had stopped by the house to see Rita Antone, Fat Crack’s auntie. In the course of the conversation, Wanda had mentioned the situation with the little ant-bit girl. By now the grandmother had been deemed an unsuitable guardian. Even though some of Clemencia’s other relatives still lived in Nolic, none of them was willing to take the child in once she was released from the hospital.
“Why not?” Rita had asked.
“They’re a superstitious lot,” Wanda explained. “They remember the story of Kulani O’oks, the Woman Who Was Kissed by the Bees who, under the name of Mualig Siakam—Forever Spi
“What will become of her then?” Rita wanted to know.
“There’s an orphanage in Phoenix,” Wanda said, “one operated by the Baptist Church. They take in children from any number of tribes.”
“Who runs the orphanage,” Rita had asked, “Indians or Milgahn?”
“Anglos, I’m sure,” Wanda answered with a shrug.
“No,” Rita said, speaking with surprising forcefulness. “That ca
Wanda was aghast. It would have been rude, of course, to point out that Rita was far too old to adopt the child and raise Clemencia on her own, but Rita had already come to the same conclusion.
“Mrs. Ladd and Mr. Walker can adopt her,” Rita declared. “I’ll be here to see that she learns what she needs to know about her people.”
“Diana Ladd and Brandon Walker may be great friends of the tribe, but they’re Anglos,” Wanda had objected. “Tribal courts are discouraging Anglo adoptions these days.”
“Why?” Rita had retorted. “Do they think Baptists who run orphanages will do a better job of raising her than these two people will, especially if they have my help?”
In the end and much to Wanda Ortiz’s amazement, Rita’s wishes had won the day. Brandon Walker and Diana Ladd had become first Clemencia Escalante’s foster parents and eventually her adoptive ones. At Rita Antone’s insistence, they had given their adopted daughter a new name—Lanita Dolores Walker.
Much later, while Rita and Lani wandered hand in hand along the paths of the Arizona/Sonora Desert Museum, Rita had related the story of how, in a time of terrible drought, a young Tohono O’odham woman named Kulani O’oks had been saved from death by the beating of the wings of the Ali-chu’uchum O’odham, the Little People—the bees and wasps, the butterflies and moths. Rita had gone on to explain how, back when Rita herself had been a child, her grandmother, S’Amichuda O’oks—Understanding Woman—had predicted that someday Rita would find a girl who would grow up to be a trusted medicine woman, someone just like Kulani O’oks, the Woman Who Was Kissed by the Bees.
“You’re only a little girl now,” Rita had said, “but I hope that you will grow up to be that medicine woman.”
“Kulani O’oks,” Lani had repeated the words several times, letting the strange and yet familiar collection of syllables roll across her tongue. Suddenly she understood. “Is that why people call me Lani—because of her, Kulani?”
Rita’s wrinkled brown face had beamed with satisfaction. “Yes, my child,” she had said, “that’s it exactly.”
A NARROW STRIP OF ROADWAY had been carved into the foothills leading up Ioligam’s eastern flank. Winter rains had left it rutted, uneven, and washed out in spots. Even in four-wheel drive, Leo’s Toyota struggled to make the climb. Closing her eyes, Lani shut out the noise of the laboring engine and prayed that Rita Antone had been right and that somehow the spirit of Kulani O’oks would be with her.
They drove past the small clearing where Fat Crack had pitched the tent while Lani had lived through her sixteen days of exile, her e lihmhun—the traditional Tohono O’odham purification ceremony required after the killing of an enemy. Because Lani Walker had indeed taken a human life. Andrew Carlisle, in one last bid for vengeance against Lani’s mother, had sent a fellow inmate, Mitch Johnson, to kidnap and kill Lani. In a final confrontation inside Ioligam’s network of caverns, Lani had managed to turn the tables on her would-be killer. The crew of experienced rock climbers that had finally removed Mitch Johnson’s remains from the depths of the cavern had reported that he had died in a fall.
For years only Lani and Fat Crack Ortiz had known the whole truth about what had happened—that she was the one responsible for the man’s death. She had used her bare feet to push a fragile stalagmite loose from its moorings and send it plunging into the depths. Johnson had still been alive and moaning until the rock hit him. Had anyone examined the remains of the rock, they no doubt would have found Lani’s footprints on it, but the medical examiner and the detectives—who had zero interest in climbing down into the abyss—had been satisfied with the idea that the fall alone had killed him.
During those long and lonely sixteen days with her face painted black, Lani had fasted during the day. In the evenings, Fat Crack brought her the only meal she was allowed—a dish of salt-free food.
It was during that period of time that she had come to truly understand her relationship to Kulani O’oks, that long-ago medicine woman, whose given name was Mualig Siakam—Forever Spi
That was the secret Indian name Rita Antone, Lani’s beloved Nana Dahd, had given the child long ago just as the old woman had also given Davy, Lani’s older brother, his secret name Olhoni—Little Orphaned Calf. As a child Lani had believed that she’d been called Mualig Siakam because of her love of dancing and twirling. It was only on those nights with Fat Crack that she came to understand that Kulani O’oks and Mualig Siakam had been one and the same.
After the confrontation in the cavern, two more secret names had become part of Lani Walker’s store of names: Gagdathag O’oks—Betraying Woman, the name of the girl the people of Rattlesnake Skull village had left to die in a cave as punishment for her treachery—and Nanakumal Namkam—Bat Meeter. That was the spirit of Betraying Woman, a ghostly presence that had kept Lani company during the terrible hours she’d been locked in the limestone cavern with a killer. It was the fluttering wings of a tiny bat that had given her the courage to fight back.
Now traveling up that narrow road for the first time in many years, Lani understood she would need help from all those names and spirits if she was to accomplish her goal that night. She would need them, and so would Gabe Ortiz. If Lani’s plan worked as she hoped, he would come away from this night with a secret Indian name too—Ali Gihg Tahpani, Baby Fat Crack, in honor of his grandfather, and also after his uncle Richard, who shared the same name but who was simply called Baby.
The Toyota ground to a halt. “This is as far as we go,” Leo a
Lani stepped out onto a shoulder that was so rough she had to struggle to maintain her footing. When Gabe finally clambered out of the backseat, she stood there waiting for him with her hand outstretched.
“What?” he asked.
“Phone,” she answered. “Give it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re leaving it with your dad.”
“But what if I decide I want to go home? What if I need to call him?”
“Then you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Lani told him. “Try smoke signals.”
Reluctantly Gabe handed over the phone. “That’s not fair,” he said.
“This isn’t about fair,” Lani replied, dropping the phone on the passenger seat of the truck. “It never has been.”